Photo Credit: Jim Towns
Today marks fifteen years since I began my crawl to freedom from an eighteen-year abusive relationship.
People who know me, have heard me mention this before but most people don’t know why I left or what led up to me leaving. I have never told this story before. Every time I have thought now I’m ready to tell it, that thought is followed by a negative one, convincing me that my story is not unique or compelling or necessary. I was invalidated by my spouse for so many years that I still question the validity of my current feelings—often. It is a daily struggle.
I was instrumental in working on our marriage (yes, it was one-sided). I studied relationships and psychology, I sought wise counsel (professional and spiritual), I read personality and self-help books. I made charts, displaying all of his best qualities—real or imagined—thinking that, if I could only help him love himself the way I did, he would finally be happy. I believed he would finally become the man I believed he could be. One of the many acts I perpetuated, was orchestrating memorable and beneficial memories for us, including a weekly date night. (My efforts were truly wasted on the wrong man.)
On August 9th, 2010, I was out for what would be the final dinner date with the husband of my youth. I didn’t know it at the time but that was the day he was going to drop the final, proverbial straw on the camel’s back. This would, of course, cause the metaphorical beast of burden—carrying the weight of our relationship—to break.
That fateful evening, he and I sat through a most uncomfortable dinner—sandwich-shop hoagies—at a beautiful park, overlooking the city. He did not say two words to me the entire time, despite my efforts to cultivate conversation. He finished his own sandwich before me (a common occurrence), promptly stood up from the picnic bench and walked about twenty feet away, to admire the view. I sat at the table, alone, wondering why he didn’t want to show me the respect of remaining at the table while I ate. I knew enough about etiquette to understand that this was considered rude behavior. I overlooked it. Like everything else he did to hurt me, I overlooked it.
After losing my appetite, I left the rest of my meal, walked up next to him, and willed him to notice me, to grant me some love (my primary love language is physical touch). He did notice me. He did not look at me. Instead, he came up behind me and placed a vice-grip around the back of my neck—a symbol that only he and I understood. There were a few other folks around us who had no idea the interaction that was taking place.
A while later, we were in the truck, heading home. Within a couple miles of our destination, I brought up a conversation that he had put off having with me multiple times. I should mention that I was told to not bring things up when he was upset. When I brought things up when he was not upset, I was accused of trying to start “something.”
The conversation went something like this:
Me: I believe (our 14-year old daughter) is old enough for her own checking account. Plus, it would teach her the value of money, how to budget, etc.
Him: I spoke to (a guy) at work and he agrees with me, that she’s not old enough.
From there, the discussion spiraled out of control. I finally called him out on the way he didn’t see me as an equal partner and that he refused to validate my thoughts and feelings. He told me, for the thousandth time, some variation of I was an uneducated housewife and that the guys at work knew better than me. I became so angry that I demanded he pulled over on a major street and let me out.
Tears now streaming down my face, I ran to a park where I had coached my kids in soccer. (He was not involved in any of his own kids’ activities). It was dark and probably unsafe but on that night, in that moment, I didn’t care what happened to me. It occurred to me that I might get raped or even killed—I’d lost the will to care. I just laid down on the pavement and prayed through tears, for deliverance. I begged my Maker for a sign that I could leave this prison once-and-for-all. The sign was not forthcoming but after almost two decades of this misery, I realized, I did not need a sign. Truly wanting to die was my sign. The very next day, I left.
That’s it?!
You might be thinking the same thing that he said to a counsellor, a few weeks later. I’m paraphrasing: “I thought she wasn’t serious. I figured if she was going to divorce me, it would be over something big (like adultery, physical violence, etc.).”
The flaw in his thinking was the same error in judgment from many other people in my life—up to that point and since—who do not understand or recognize the spectrum of abuse. From an outsider looking in, that conversation probably seemed somewhat benign and I would appear to be immature and/or dramatic—creating a mountain out of mole hill. (This is exactly why most women do not speak up).
Aside: I know these same horrific things also happen to men in abusive relationships and that breaks my heart for them. The difference is in societal perception. When a woman claims to be abused, she is often invalidated as being dramatic but if a man claims he’s being (psychologically or verbally) abused by a woman, he’s usually met with some version of “bitches be crazy.” He may be told that he’s a “wuss” or something more colorful but—for the most part—abused men are granted more support than abused women. The rules are just not the same.
That one conversation was just one of many, many conversations that happened from the time I was sixteen until I was thirty-five years old. I had finally had enough. To the untrained eye/ear, that interaction did not seem like a “big deal” but let me break it down for you, including the subliminal messages that are encoded between the abuser and his victim:
Leaving the table at dinner = You are not worthy of my time and I do not value you.
Looking at the beautiful scenery = You are not beautiful and I’d rather give my affection and focus to someone or something else.
Placing a grip around my neck = You are not autonomous—I own you and you can never leave me.
Thinking my opinion about my own daughter did not matter = You are stupid and I am above you. You are diminished by me, making you subhuman.
Now, if you’re wondering if all conversations went this way (with nothing more than hurtful words), you would be wrong. This is the same man who pulled me up from a sitting position by my hair, injuring my baby son whom I was feeding at the time. This is the same man who broke a very sturdy highchair with the weight of my body. He forced me up from a sitting position, throwing me down on the chair so hard, it sent shockwaves through my spine. I am still falling. He had threatened my safety and well-being and later those threats included my children.
I wasn’t just afraid of leaving him because I needed him or felt I couldn’t make it on my own or for some other emotional reason. I knew if I ever left him, there would be consequences—there were always consequences—and these consequences could be fatal. The threat of physical harm was always looming, a vicious undercurrent. This went way beyond passive-aggressive behaviors. Fear kept me trapped.
Thankfully, this story did not end in 2010. I fought a long and extremely (unnecessarily) challenging court case, which ended with me obtaining a restraining/protective order and full custody of my three children. I did not give up. I chose the much harder path (leaving) and was criticized, judged and financially devastated. In spite of all I lost, I’m grateful that I reached a point where it was time to unalive myself or leave him. I had to choose freedom. I have to keep choosing it, every day.
Freedom is a choice.
If you believe you are in a relationship like the one I’ve described, please seek help. Remember that abuse and domestic violence include an entire spectrum of dangerous and damaging behaviors. Even if you’re not sure this applies to you, please ask for help.
There is much more help available now than there was when I was in that situation. During my marriage there were not cell phones, there was no internet, and it was much easier to be kept in the dark. It’s time to bring these dark acts into the Light.
There are safe and clandestine ways to reach out. Here is a good place to start:
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